“O Mummyji” : The Ballad of the Forlorn Chief

O Mummyji, o mummyji, they don’t fight fair These Cashmirie– Their boys, their girls, their women too They throw their stones, they do, they do, And us poor boys (what? yes, “my poor boys”) Have only guns and armour What, prithee, are they to do? to do?

We shoot them down, we do, we do But they fire back, they do, they do: Words, pictures, and yes stones too And on occasion a flying shoe

O Mummieji, o mummieji Help me sort out these Cashmirie. They talk only of Azadie, These stones-for-hire Cashmirie, Then tell me, what’s a poor boy to do? to do?

Bofors we have, and LMGs too INSAS, tear gas, AFSPA too We thunder and boom, oh yes we do, But they still swarm, they do, they do, These ungrateful, unmanly Cashmirie.

Yes unmanly, so unmanly, these Cashmirie Women and children, Mummieji! O give them guns—now that’s an idea– (I’ll talk to WAR, I will, I will) And we’ll mow then down, we will, we will That’s how men fight, big guns and all, That’s how we beat the Chinese and all.

(We didn’t? but Papa says we did, we did I believe Papa, big chest and all, He knows us men, he’s big and tall At least he was, before the fall).

So bless me now, O Mummieji, And let me at the Cashmirie And so learn how to do it best And one day we can thrash the rest

(–who? why Mizos and Nagas and Dalits and Naxals and Tamils and Bengalis too, the lesser denizens of the Indian zoo—)

Let libtards natter about democracy being messy I’ve gone one better, and called this war dirty

(what, we’re not at war against our own?—

Ah Mummieji, women don’t understand, Why its important I take a stand— The jeep and the shalbaf spun me around And now I must, must stand my ground)

So bring on the guns and a few bombs too And I’ll rise, I’ll rise, I’ll rise to the occasion And when the dead are done, and the crisis renewed I’ll park my car in a Governor’s station.